


You've Really Got a Hold on Me

by sittingonacloud



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Hamburg Era, Love/Hate, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 04:08:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11935995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sittingonacloud/pseuds/sittingonacloud
Summary: Paul and Stuart hate each other. Music and art is everything. Hamburg is the city of neon lights and strange happenings.





	You've Really Got a Hold on Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, glad to finally be sharing this.  
> Few notes:  
> Firstly, the timeline will be a bit weird since I was half following the film Backbeat and half following the real timeline. Hopefully it isn't so awfully inaccurate.   
> Speaking of Backbeat, I've made a few references to the film in the fic :) It's certainly worth a watch if you have the time.   
> Lastly, I hope you enjoy the fic. Come visit me at epsteinbrian on tumblr!

Fingers plucking strings that hum like electrical wires. Feet stamping on the unsteady wooden panels of the stage. Music pumping through them like a second heartbeat. Paul feels alive, a slave to the music. George is playing his solo, and everything is going perfectly. They’re gods. They truly are. And everything is just so lively and vibrant until he hears it. The underlying bass playing. And his stomach curls and his teeth grit as they play the last cord. He wipes the sweat from his eyes as John thanks the 2am audience. Paul shoots a look to the small artist standing by John’s side, sunglasses over his eyes, grinning lopsidedly like an idiot.

They’re going to be big, alright? They’re going to be huge. Too big for their own bloody good, John reckons. But how on earth are they supposed to impress anyone with such ordinary bass playing? How are they going to get to the toppermost of the poppermost when they have to carry Stu like some sort of prince. Untouchable. 

John would defend Stuart with his life, and that makes Paul shudder with bitterness. He loathes it. The first time he ever approached John about Stuart the older boy looked at him with squinted eyes and growled, _“If Stu’s out, then I am too.”_

And Christ, John’s half the reason he’s even here, possibly more. So he’s trapped. And it’s nights like these where he can barely shove past Stuart without purposely knocking him to the ground. 

He passes a look over his shoulder and finds John and Stuart in a half embrace, beaming like kings. Paul hates it, and heads backstage as quickly as his wobbly legs can carry him. He strips off the leather gear, peeling the sweaty layers until he’s cool again, washing everything out with a cold beer George has handed to him. They clink their glasses, a toast to another show gone well enough, and drink. 

Eyes wander back to John, with his arm around Stuart’s scrawny figure. The two of them make quite the pair, but Paul sees through it. 

Music is what John was made for, he was a performer. Not scribbler like Stuart. 

Paul grimaces, Stuart was more than a scribbler, of course. He was a diamond the rough in Liverpool with his fantastic ability to create any sort of artwork. It’s what won him the bass guitar in the first place, his earnings from a painting. 

The bass that makes him look tiny. Paul huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he heads to the bar to try and see if he could receive a free refill with just a wink to the barmaid.    
  


-   
  


He can hear it. The sound of squeaking beds knocking against the wall. Paul groans and rolls over, pillow over his head. The thumping continues, draining him of any hope of sleep with each spectacular thud. 

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Paul finally bursts, sitting up.

“What?” Paul can hear George blinking the sleep from his eyes in his place on the top bunk. 

“They’ve got birds in there, at the same bloody time.”

“Good on ‘em,” George yawns.

“They could ‘ave some respect for the livin’ dead over ‘ere,” Paul mutters, running his hands over his face. 

“Just count sheep,” George suggests, rolling over. The bed strains under his weight, hissing. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul flops back into the mattress, hitting his head on the concrete of the wall behind him. Rubbing the back of his skull, he wonders if two people could ever be too close. 

-

There’s a distinct kind of rush he gets from messing with Stuart. Like opening the floodgates and allowing ecstasy to wash over him. 

He sticks out his boot as he lounges by the bar just as Stuart wanders past. The smaller of the two loses his footing and topples over onto the floor. A handful of people laugh, Paul included. He takes a sip of his beer, locking his eyes on Stuart’s as the boy rises onto his knees. 

“What the fuck was that for?” Stuart snaps, brow furrowed and long slender fingers curled into fists. 

“A horrible accident, I swear,” Paul places his hand over his heart, stifling a wicked grin. 

“Yeah, right,” Stuart rises, dusting off his jacket and adjusting his quiff, “Fuckin’ git.”

Paul allows him to have the last word just this once, watching the older boy walk off towards the barmaid with the low hanging blouse. He contemplates having a go at one of the pretty blonde birds hanging around by the stage when a strong hand grips his shoulder.

“Yer a fuckin’ nuisience, ye know tha’?” John snarls in his ear, making Paul shiver.  

“How so?”

“Ye can’t help it, can ye? Ye just got to pick on him ‘cuz he’s not as good as you,” John shakes his head, taking Paul’s beer from him and taking a large swig, foam gathering on his upper lip. 

“I’m jus’ havin’ a bit o’ fun,” Paul defends himself with a shrug, eyes drifting back to where Stuart is leaning against the wall, sunglasses between his fingers as he talks softly with the blushing barmaid. 

“Could do without ye bein’ a proper arsehole,” John sets the mug down on the bench, wiping his mouth with his forearm, “Anyroad, we were bloody great tonight. Nothin’ to complain about on yer part.”

“I have some notes for him,” Paul half jokes, “Don’t think he’d be too pleased with them though.”

“Just leave it alone, it’s my bloody group, I know what’s best.”

“Sure, John,” Paul replies with a sigh, still gazing at Stuart’s pale face, flushed pink cheeks from exertion on stage. 

-

There’s a shift the night Astrid arrives. They all see her, the pretty blonde in the black turtleneck in the center. Wide eyes and a slight, tight-lipped smile. Her cheeks are tinted rose, she looks tiny and delicate. She doesn’t belong. Like a rose growing from a crack in the cement. Paul almost loses his place in Long Tall Sally when he spots her. He sings to her the entire time, winking at her when she catches his eye. But mostly she’s focusing on the other end of the stage where Stuart happens to be, back turned on the audience in some stupid gimmick to look cool. 

They finally finish up with 20 Flight Rock and the boys practically claw their way to Klaus, a gentleman who introduced himself to the band with a album cover idea not too long ago, who is sitting with her. 

“Astrid, this is Stuart,” Klaus is beaming as the two shake hands.

“Astrid,” Stuart echoes, almond shaped eyes glinting with interest. 

“I like the way you play,” she says slowly and quietly, eyes not drifting from Stuart’s. Paul feels a little sick watching it play out in front of him. 

The pair finally separate from the band and huddle close on the end of the bar, sipping on cocktails Paul wasn’t aware were even sold here. Stuart is smiling, for a change, and she is giggling into her hand. Paul wants cut through with a clever line, but nothing comes to him. Instead, he fumes about it at the table, playing cards with George. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” George comments, twisting in his seat to sneak a glance at her once more.

“Too bad she’s with Klaus.”

“Stuart’s got an eye on her though,” George chuckles, as if it’s something to be laughed about and Paul almost snaps.

Instead, he coolly replies with, “Good luck to ‘im.”

But something is off, he’s staring at the duo, icey and full of intent, but they’re so caught up in their own little paradise they don’t notice him at all. John parades through once or twice, wrapping an arm around Stuart or saying something in a strange accent to make Astrid laugh. Stuart looks happy. The most happy he’s ever seen the bastard. And it’s twisting at his insides as he shoots them another look. He must be imagining it when he sees Stuart’s face fall once he makes eye contact with Paul, he must be. He’s had too much to drink, too many pills sitting in his stomach. 

-

“She’s a photographer,” Stuart is telling John as they file into their rooms, “She’s great. She wants to take our picture.”

“What for?” John frowns, shrugging off his jacket. Paul lingers by the corner with his arms crossed. 

“For promotional-” Stuart struggles to speak as he climbs up onto the top bunk, “Ye know, all that.”

“She can photograph my arse, mate,” John sighs, crawling into bed and turning over to look accusingly at Paul, “What do you want?’

Paul unfolds his arms and steps forward, “Nothin’. Just wishin’ you lads a good night.”

His eyes dance around Stuart as he leaves, contemplating pretty photographers and Stuart’s bright eyes. 

-

The shoot goes well, that’s all Paul can say. Perhaps it would have gone _faster_ if Stuart didn’t feel the need to approach Astrid so bloody often. But it went well. She tells them how good they look. And that Stuart looks like James Dean, which is a laugh, because really - he’s nowhere near as cool as James Dean. He’ll break out next week with red pimples across his cheeks and then she won’t be so quick to flatter him. 

He will admit, the two of them together look as though they’re cut from the same cloth. Dark clothes, pale skin, generally arty. But that doesn’t make it any less unsettling they way they cosy up to each other as Stuart helps carry the equipment back to the car. It’s not as though Astrid was ever his to lose, but he feels like he’s losing a game to Stuart and he won’t have that.

Paul approaches John - he’ll always take advantage of when the teddy boy is free from Stuart - and chats with him casually. He might be leaning into Stuart’s space, just to catch a snippet of what on earth they’re talking about. As if they have anything in common besides art and dressing like it’s somebody’s funeral. 

-

He’s almost ok with the whole thing - Stuart trying to flirt with Astrid - until John pipes up in front of the mirrors of the bathroom, “She’s going to take his picture.”

Paul’s heart flutters, “The two of ‘em? Alone?”

“Something’s goin’ to ‘appen,” John grins wickedly at his reflection, shaving off the last of the stubble growing under his chin. 

“You’re happy for him? I thought ye fancied her?” Paul accuses, pointing his toothbrush at him. 

“Do not,” John defends himself, weakly, “Why? Do you?”

“‘Course not,” Paul shakes his head, stuffing his toothbrush into his mouth. 

“It’s too bad. She’s different, ye know?”

“Yeah,” Paul takes a full breath, staring at his reflection. 

-

The day Stuart is missing Paul is restless, wandering around the city with the rest of the boys. He fidgets absent-mindedly with the zip of his jacket, thoughts drifting helplessly to Stuart and his new bird. It’s ridiculous that of all the boys, she chose Stuart. 

The way Stuart looks at him, as if he has to look down on the younger boy. As if he’s less superior somehow. It frustrates him to no end, and he doesn’t know how to control his undying hatred of that boy. The only relief he gets is when John chooses to migrate over to him instead. 

He would say it all comes down to John’s attention, but it’s not. It’s bigger and stupider than that. It’s awful and petty, but he just doesn’t like the bloke. And it’s eating him up that the pint sized artist might actually have a shot with the pretty girl Paul fancies. 

Does he fancy her? That’s besides the point. She’s just a pawn in this game. And Paul intends to win. 

-

Before the show, the band are gathered backstage. John’s peeking through the curtain watching the dancer woo the audience. Pete and George are playing cards with about three dollars on the table between them. This leaves Stuart and Paul standing awkwardly across from each other. Stuart’s holding the bass, which look bigger than he is, and it elicits an idea from the younger of the pair. 

He snatches the bass from Stuart’s hands, surprising the bassist. 

“I thought you could use a little lesson,” he starts plucking at the strings, “Ye don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your girlfriend.”

Stuart’s eyes ignite with a firey sort of anger that can’t be contained. He steps forward and grabs the bass by it’s neck, pulling Paul along with it. 

“I can do just fine on me own,” Stuart replies as coolly as he can through his teeth.

“Oh, I’m not so sure,” Paul says quietly, “I’m only offering help.”

“I kindly decline your offer,” Stuart rips the bass from Paul’s hands.

“No way to treat yer guitar,” Paul clicks his tongue. 

“No way to treat your bandmate either,” Stuart mutters, and Paul is stunned. He fishes for a response, but they are already being called out onto the stage. The lights beckon them.

The crowd cheers fairly loudly as they hop up onto the stage. John greets the audience and introduces the band one by one. The girls go mad when Pete stands up from behind his kit, it’s what finally snaps Paul out of his dreamy state. He’s angry. He’s not even sure why this is all causing him to nearly burst. Maybe it’s a build up of everything these past few months especially. 

He detests Stuart, he really does. 

He sits behind the piano stretching out his fingers. Stuart is just across the stage, and Paul grinds his teeth. Fucking Stuart. 

The song starts and Paul is right on time with everyone, so is Stuart. Fucking perfect Stu. 

“Don’t mess this one up, ye hear me?” Paul shouts over the noise. Stuart’s head turns, his eyes acknowledging him for a moment before turning back to the audience, lips a thin straight line. 

“Ye fucking got everyone fooled, don’t ye? Not me. Yer a fucking loser, untalented. You don’t belong with us.”

Stuart doesn’t move, but his fingers fumble on the strings and everyone can hear it. 

“You’ve gone and fucked up the song now, haven’t ye? Just like I said ye would. Ye dickhead. Yer only lucky John loves yer arse so fucking much.”

He swears he can see the reddening of Stuart’s cheeks. He can see his knuckles whiten over the neck of the bass. Paul grins, playing harder and harder. Sweat running down the sides of his face, he continues on and on. Stuart doesn’t budge. He’s on the brink of something extraordinary but he can’t quite…

_ Astrid _ .

“Yer fuckin’ nazi girlfriend will leave ye as soon as she figures it out-”

Everything shatters. Stuart strips off the bass, letting it fall onto the stage’s floor and twists his body around and runs at Paul. He hurls himself at him, knocking Paul off of his seat and onto the grimy floor. Stuart is on top of him, fist knocking into Paul’s cheekbone hard and fast. Paul rolls out from under and grabs Stuart by the back of his jacket and pulls him into a rough embrace, spitting him out onto the ground and letting his fists rain on Stuart’s face. 

Stuart groans, scratching at Paul’s face while gripping the front of his shirt to keep him in place. Paul knees Stuart in the crotch and jumps back, regaining his breath before Stuart lunges at him again, kicking him in the chest. He’s winded, but ok, he takes a deep breath as he grabs a fistful of Stuart’s shirt, forehead on forehead, staring dead into each other’s eyes. 

“You never fuckin insult her like that, ye hear me? I will kill you,” Stuart promises with a hiss, warm breath washes over Paul’s bleeding lip. 

“She’s just as bad as you are if she thinks she should waste her time with shite like you,” Paul huffs.

Stuart growls and pushes Paul’s chest, sending the younger one flying backwards. The slighter artist jumps at him, only stopped when John’s arm blocks him. Pete drags Paul by his arms out of the way, kneeling beside him as Paul nurses his sore hand. 

“The fuck are you doing?!” Pete looks like he’s about to hurt him, absolute exasperation written across his features, “Ye going to get yourself killed!”

“By Stuart?” Paul passes the bassist a look, “Over my dead fucking body!”

He spits out the blood gathering in a pool under his tongue and stumbles to his feet. Pete and George have his arms pinned behind him, guiding him away from the stage. 

Stuart is still lying there, head cradled in John’s arms, and Paul despises him. His mouth is hanging open and his quiff is fallen in front of his eyes but he can still make out the burning hatred in his oculars. 

Some of the audience cheer for him, the girls look scandalised and worried. He groans, the pain finally startling to settle into his bones, the aching of his bruising muscles comes to light. 

He’s sat in his bed, Pete immediately exits, leaving George to comfort him.

“What’re ye doing?” George whines, wiping the blood from Paul’s cheek with a tissue. 

“I can’t stand him, George,” Paul groans, leaning back against the wall, “He’s a fucking-”

“There’s no need for all of this,” George gestures to Paul’s bleeding face.

“I’ll leave ye to it, then,” George sighs when Paul doesn’t reply, running his hands over his knees before hauling himself up and leaving Paul alone. 

The window, plastered over with posters allows light to leak through the torn sections, rattles as cars drive past. The room is damp and cold, and Paul can feel every bruise forming on his body. He sniffs, wiping the blood dripping off of his jaw and onto his shirt, staining it dark. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he hears a familiar voice cut through the silence. 

He looks up, Stuart is leaning in the doorframe, arms crossed. His hair still mussed and eyes still aflame with resentment. 

“Where’s John?” Paul asks, rising to his feet, wobbling a little. 

“He’s out, gettin’ a drink,” Stuart closes in on Paul, “What is it with you and him?”

“You calling me a  _ fairy _ ?” Paul accuses, pointing a finger at Stuart’s face. It’s all about to burst, everything, all over again. 

“I never said that,” Stuart groans, shaking his head. Paul lunges at him, grabbing his shirt.

“If that’s what you’re saying, I swear to fuckin’ God-”

“I never said that!” Stuart practically yells, gripping a handful of Paul’s shirt, fingernails scratching Paul’s neck, “You fuckin’ git.”

Stuart’s eyes are burning - brilliant and intense. His lips are curled into a snarl, and Paul can make out the freckles dusted over his cheeks from how close they are. Each beery breath that puffs over his face, each tug at his his shirt, it’s all sharp and crisp. Every movement is extraordinarily impassioned, the two of them standing there, holding onto each other. Bleeding and bruised, practically growling like wild animals. 

Paul despises him. So fucking much. 

He presses his mouth on Stuart’s forcefully, eyes shut tight. Stuart doesn’t move, freezing completely before melting into Paul’s hold. Stuart’s lips move, encasing Paul’s bottom lip with his mouth and tugging. Paul moans, wrapping an arm around Stuart’s waist and pulling him closer. The smaller of the pair forces his thigh between Paul’s legs, causing him to groan into Stuart’s mouth. Paul’s face falls into the crook of Stuart’s neck, teeth grazing over the artist’s collarbone. He hisses and forces Paul closer, rolling his hips against his crotch. Paul almost cries out, sucking on Stuart’s neck as they migrate over to the bed. 

“Fuckin’ hate you,” Paul whimpers as Stuart straddles him, removing his layers of clothes one by one until his shirtless, glimmering with a thin film of sweat. 

“You’re such a fucking twat,” Stuart laments, casting his clothes aside onto the floor carelessly. 

Paul grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him closer, mouths crashing together. His tiny body is producing so much warmth, it’s unreal. Stuart’s hand tangles in Paul’s dark hair, tugging. There’s a swirling sensation in his lower belly, and his cock is hardening quickly. He swallows, breathing heavily as he struggles out of his shirt, ripping the buttons as he tears off the fabric. 

Stuart’s thigh is still rubbing against Paul’s crotch, creating amazing friction. Paul is biting into his lip, holding onto Stuart’s arm, sliding down and gripping the waistband of his jeans. He fumbles with the button and zip, tugging them down. Stuart struggles over Paul, ripping off his dark pants quickly, Paul doing the same. 

Soon they’re both completely naked, but it’s not enough. Paul hungers for more heat. He kneels on the bed in front of Stuart, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulls him into a deeper kiss. Stuart hands run down his back, fingernails scraping against his skin, and finally gropes Paul’s arse. He palms at his cheeks, making Paul lean into the touch. 

He’s not thinking, every ounce of logic has flown from his head and was tossed aside along with Paul’s clothes. He doesn’t consider the consequences, he’s hardly considering what’s happening, he just keeps kissing Stuart like he’s starving for it. 

He’s painfully hard, his cock rutting against Stuart’s hip. 

“Fuck,” Stuart groans, squeezing Paul in his hands.

“Shut the fuck up,” Paul whines between mouthing at his chest. 

“Please,” Stuart whimpers and God, does it feel good to hear him beg. To be in the position of power for once. 

“Say it again,” his voice is embarrassingly shrill. 

“Please,” Stuart repeats, voice shaking. Paul almost grins - almost. He’s just about to reach for his cock to relieve the burning ache for contact when Stuart’s hand darts for it, slender digits wrapping around his length. Paul makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a cry and a moan, letting his forehead rest on Stuart’s boney shoulder. It makes for a stupidly uncomfortable headrest and he is about to even say something when Stuart tugs at him.

“Oh! God,” Paul wheezes, reaching out for Stuart’s cock, reciprocating the motion. Stuart moans, long and drawn out. And it sends a rippling effect of ecstasy through Paul’s body. 

He comes, spilling over his chest. He lets out a sigh, crashing back into the pillow, wiping the sweat gathering on his forehead. Stuart has come too, and is leaning back with his head hung low.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Stuart’s hair is all over the place, and he looks almost drained. Sickly white skin, ribs protruding. Paul can’t believe he just got off with Stuart Sutcliffe, the lanky artist whom he hates with everything he has.

“What just-” Paul starts but is cut off when Stuart leaps for the floor, collecting his clothes. He’s in a frenzied state, wiping the come off of his stomach and sliding into his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Paul questions, words almost slurring together.

“Trying not to get caught, you git,” Stuart rolls his eyes. 

“Oh,” Paul gulps and starts to piece himself back together. It’s when he’s fully clothed again that he feels a tight grip on his arm. 

“Tell no one about this? Ye hear me? I’ll fucking have you murdered for it if you do.”

“As if I’d want anyone to know!” Paul shoves him off, stepping past him and heads for the door, “Fucking idiot.”

He slams the door behind him, trembling. He feels sick, yet elated. He can’t describe it, it’s so foreign to him. He needs a solid drink or two to wash out this strange state of being. 

-

The next time he sees Stuart is when they play their next set. Paul’s fingers are stumbling over the strings madly in order to keep up, but he can’t. Because Stuart is standing right there, acting all cool and confident. Like nothing happened. But shouldn’t he be grateful? Paul’s stomach twists in it’s place as the music swells, filling the small club. 

When they finally finish, Paul’s just unplugging his amp when he feels a grip on his elbow.

“Ye sorted yer little feud out with Stu?” John questions with beer on his breath.

“Yeah,” Paul stands up straight, eyes on the ground. 

“Yer a couple of birds, I swear. Fight like ‘em too.”

“Ok John,” Paul holds up his hand and pushes John’s chest so he can step on through. He has something to say to Sutcliffe.    
  


-

“So are ye just going to ignore me?” Paul queries backstage as they start to drift to their rooms. 

“What?” Stuart replies, stupidly ignorant.

“Yer so fuckin’ full of it,” Paul wants to shove him into the wall, but instead he just balls his hands into fists and gets on with it. 

“Listen, Paul, I’d rather not look into what happened,” Stuart places his bass upright, leaning against the wall, Paul’s eyes wander to his hands for just a moment too long. 

“Neither, but-”

“What exactly is your point? Huh?” Stuart faces him straight on, eyes squinted in focused anger.

Paul blinks, because really, he’s not entirely sure, “I’m sayin’, it better not happen again.” 

“No problem,” Stuart practically hisses and shoves past him.

-

It’s after their set when he spots them. Stuart with his arm draped around Astrid’s small shoulders. Klaus is just a few tables away, sitting with George and Pete. Paul’s teeth grind. The nerve of that stupidly small git. 

“I liked your show,” says a small voice. He turns to find a pretty brunette smiling at him shyly, twirling her long hair around her fingers.

“Ah, thanks, love,” he winks, making her giggle. His eyes drift back to Stuart, but he’s lost him. Somewhere in the crowd he’s disappeared. 

“You’re very good with your guitar,” she compliments him further, edging closer to him. 

“Am I?” he plays coy, half smiling and eyeing her up and down. But something is vacant in his eyes. 

Something is ticking in his brain that makes him do the unthinkable. He excuses himself and storms over to Klaus. 

It’s only when he makes it to their table that he realises what he’s doing. He’s about to crush Klaus. Regret pools in his stomach as he places a gentle hand on Klaus’ shoulder. There’s a sketch of George sitting on the table - it’s incredibly good. 

“Klaus…” he begins quietly, “Your...Astrid is with Stuart.”

Klaus frowns, confused, “Yes?”

He doesn’t know how to communicate this to the German lad, “They’re...together.”

Klaus breaks out into a kind smile, “Yes, I know. They are good together.”

Paul frowns, “She’s cheating on you.”

“No, she is with Stuart now. They are good together.”

_ Oh. _

“Oh,” Paul feels his cheeks colour, “Oh.”

He slinks into the nearest chair and stays quiet while the boys around him chat. So this is how it is now? Stuart gets everything. Sells his painting for a ridiculous amount of money. Gets into the world’s greatest band. Gets the girl. Where does that leave Paul? In the metaphorical gutter. And he hates it. 

He’s fuming by the time he makes it to bed, stripping off the layers of clothes and pulling up the blanket to his chin. Fucking Sutcliffe.

-

Two things happen that change things. 

First, they get into the Top Ten. John is ecstatic and Paul can’t help but feel the same elation. They’re finally making the progress they need to. They’re heading to the toppermost. No more sleeping in a cinema. They’re moving up.

Secondly, Stuart has practically moved in with Astrid. He’s painting in her attic, getting hot showers and home cooked meals. The lucky bastard. Paul can’t stand him. 

This means he usually arrives late to gigs, paint splattered hands fumbling over the bass when they’re already halfway through a set. Paul glares at him from a distance, but the slighter of the pair doesn’t seem to notice. 

They’re just about to finish a set at some ungodly hour of the morning when John leans in and says, “Stu’s going to do Love Me Tender.”

Which, ok. Stuart can sing? Stuart is allowed to do this without objection? Paul’s fingers curl around the guitar’s neck as the music starts to play. 

Stuart’s up front, gripping the microphone, sunglasses on, attention directly pointed at Astrid - sitting in the front row of tables. 

_ “Love me tender, love me sweet….never let me go…” _

Paul is dumbfounded, he doesn’t even realise how hard he’s gripping the guitar until the end of the song. He’s seething and he’s not even totally sure why. 

Maybe it’s just a build up of everything. The cracks in the glass just need one more push until everything shatters and Paul finally goes mad. 

Astrid invites the band out for drinks at a bar she frequents. And Paul should have known it’d be filled with artsy people dressed like her, who look like her. All thin and holding glasses filled with blue drinks. It’s small and intimate, jazz playing in the background as the boys spread out and wander the place. Paul heads straight for the bar to order another drink. 

“Hello, you must be new,” a male voice purrs beside him. Paul looks over his shoulder and finds a rather handsome blonde man with an angular face smiling at him earnestly. 

“You could say that,” Paul replies, downing a sip from his new glass. 

“I would have noticed. You are very beautiful,” the stranger’s smile twists into something more bold. 

“Oh, erm, thank ye,” Paul swallows hard. Shit, is he…?

“You must come to my place, yes? We’d have a good time,” the man promises, producing a small bottle and placing it in Paul’s open palm. 

“Oh, I’m not… I don’t-”

“Ah, what a shame,” the man winks, “Enjoy your night. You can keep that. It is a gift.”

The man drifts away like a breeze, floating to the next group of people, leaving Paul to shove the bottle in his pocket. He knows what it is. He’s heard what homosexuals do with it. He’s blushing hard by the time he makes it into the bathroom, only to find a certain someone already adjusting his hair - guided by the mirror’s reflection. 

“What do you want?” Stuart sighs, like he’s tired of it all. Maybe Paul is too. Maybe he’s tired of Stuart getting exactly what he wants every single damn time. 

“I’ll show you what I want,” he storms up and grabs Stuart’s by the collar and pulls him into a deep kiss. Stuart reciprocates urgently, fingers clawing Paul’s back. 

“This again?” Stuart questions with the quirk of his lips, smug. 

“Shut up,” Paul lunges at him again, pushing the artist into the wall. He rolls his hips just like Stuart did that first time, making Stuart moan right into his mouth. Paul smirks into the kiss, and he knows Stuart can feel it. 

“In the stall…” Stuart trails off, eyes pointed in the direction of one of the stalls. They push on through, locking the door behind them. Stuart’s quick fingers work to unzip his pants, pulling them down to his knees. Paul does the same. 

They’re both hard already, and Paul can’t even be embarrassed about it, he’s too immersed in the heat of things. An idea strikes him, but he’s not so sure.

“Why are ye just standing there?” Stuart growls, pulling him in by the jacket.

Paul reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small bottle. Stuart’s face twists into a look of shock, followed by mild curiosity. 

“Open it,” Stuart demands. And Paul does as he’s told just this once, twisting the cap and letting the lube drip onto his fingers. 

“What do I…?” Paul looks up at Stuart, who looks almost hungry, the desire in his eyes is intense. Paul’s a little speechless. Stuart grabs the bottle from him and covers his fingers in the substance, rubbing his fingers together to create warmth. 

“I’m sure you know what to do, McCartney,” Stuart teases with a cruel chuckle. 

“Shut it,” Paul turns around and bends over slightly, holding onto the toilet, “Isn’t this romantic?”

“Be quiet,” Stuart says just before he slips a finger inside and shit… that’s...odd. Amazing, but odd. He wriggles his finger and Paul whimpers in a voice that he doesn’t even recognize as his own. 

“Feel good?” Stuart murmurs.

“I don’t want to hear yer voice,” Paul shuts his eyes tight.

“Ye gotta relax,” Stuart slides in deeper.

“I’m trying, but ye won’t shut up,” Paul grunts, moving his hips. 

Stuart doesn’t talk after that, soon slipping in another finger and fuck, it feels bloody incredible. He’s stretching to make room for the way Stuart thrusts his fingers, totally unravelling Paul. The bassist has his other hand gripping Paul’s hip, keeping him in place, fingernails dipping into his flesh. Paul grabs his own cock and tugs a few times before he comes over the wall.

“Fuck,” he shivers, turning around to find Stuart wanking himself off, looking right at Paul. He comes looking into his eyes with a slight smirk that Paul would punch him for if there was any room in here for it.

“Stu?” John’s voices echoes off the walls of the bathroom as the door opens. 

“Yeah John?” Stuart’s voice is high and unnatural, and Paul almost cries out how bloody awful he is. 

“Where are ye? We’re heading to another club,” he grunts. 

“Ok, be out in a minute,” Stuart begins to pull up his pants, and Paul does the same. 

“Need any help?” the voice is closer, like, outside the stall close. 

“Fuck off,” Stuart bangs his fist against the door, evidently scaring off John who exits the bathroom. 

Stuart leans back against the door, eyes on the ceiling, “What the fuck are we doing?”

“I’d rather not question it,” Paul says, zipping up his fly, “Yer not going to spill are ye?”

“Course not,” Stuart looks at him, scandalised.

“Not even to Astrid?” Paul raises an eyebrow.

“Fucking hell, no,” Stuart groans, like Paul is so insufferable that he can’t deal with it, and exits the stall, bursting out and heading straight for the sink where he proceeds to wash his face and hands. 

Paul wants to say something, feels like he should. But no words come to mind, instead he just watches the leather-clad lad blankly for a few minutes. He let it happen again. The glass has shattered. This wasn’t just a one-time, spur of the moment thing. It’s a pattern now. And Paul doesn’t know if he’s willing to quit when it feels this good. He can still feel the wickedly magnificent burning sensation inside of him. And wonders what it would be like to…. His eyes wander down to Stuart arse. 

“Why are you still here?” Stuart almost yells, looking accusingly through the mirror’s reflection. 

Paul mumbles a forgettable response and exits slowly, casting one last look at Stuart glaring at his own reflection. 

-

_ “Oh Carol, don't let him _ _   
_ _ Steal your heart away” _

The music is loud enough to fill him to the brim, eyes closed as his fingers dance over the strings. He nods his head along to the beat as the rhythm takes his entire body. It’s a spiritual experience, he figures, it’s the only way to explain his movements. He watches the girls dance at the edge of the stage through hooded eyes. There’s two or three of them eyeing him, blowing him kisses. He feels nothing. It’s not that he wouldn’t fancy them under normal circumstances, he certainly would. But Stuart has gone and fucked everything up.

He’s definitely not attracted to Stuart. That’s not it at all. Stuart is weak and delicate, he could shatter like glass if you handled him the wrong way. He’s arrogant and annoying and everything Paul resents. But somehow Stuart pushed up against the wall, moaning into Paul’s mouth - begging for more...

Paul rolls over in his bed, thin mattress groaning. Paul rubs a hand over his crotch, feeling the heat grow. He wants Stuart. Right now. Underneath him, face contorting in a look of total desire. His voice high and shrill. He wants every bit of tension to finally burst like stars. He’s suffocating in the heat, grip on himself growing tighter. He whimpers into the pillow. This is ridiculous.

He squirms, finally working his hand through the waistband of his pants and takes a hold of his cock and tugs. White hot heat encompassing him fully. His body is shivering uncontrollably as he keeps going. The room is washed over in silver moonlight as he groans quietly into his hand. Flickers of Stuart’s long, slick fingers sliding inside of him fill his vision behind his eyelids. He’s so close, and he’s thinking of Stuart. His entire body erupts and he shudders as he comes. 

He swings his legs over the bed and plants them onto the cool ground and takes a deep breath. He feels disgusting and sweaty, blood rushes through his ears. He stands and walks to the window, peering out onto the busy street. Neon lights are flashing and people are crowded in front of the club nearby. The city is alive and pulsing and somehow Paul’s thoughts return back to Stuart. 

-

Stuart is late again. He bounds onto the stage halfway through ‘Money’ and grabs the bass from it’s stand. John looks pissed, glaring at Stuart as he fumbles to find his place in the song. Paul is furious. He’s tired of this. Stuart taking this all for granted. It’s like he doesn’t even want to be a part of the group. He hardly is anymore. Paul feels electric on stage, bouncing and stepping in time to the music, but Stuart stays still, eyes locked on his own hand moving up and down the neck of the guitar. How can he not be moved by the sound they’re creating? How can he be so detached and aloof?

Paul just shakes his head. How could he allow himself to get tangled up with such a dick? 

They jump off stage and into the crowd. He can see in his peripheral vision that John has Stuart in a tight grip, talking low in his ear. Paul smirks to himself as he heads off towards one particular bird with long flowing red hair. 

“Impressive,” she compliments him finally after he buys her a drink, her long painted fingernails tapping the glass.

“Oh? The band? Yeah, suppose we’re alright,” Paul says nonchalantly. He’ll never grow tired of hearing praise for the band.

“You are the most handsome of all,” she lowers her voice, and Paul’s eyes drift to the deep red of her lipstick. The kind of hot firey red that reminds him of - 

“You’re too kind, love,” he takes a sip of his drink, just about to compliment her eyes or some other random feature when he notices Stuart lurking by. 

An idea overtakes him as he slides his arm around the girl’s waist, “You’re quite beautiful yerself, ye know.”

The girl giggles, eyes cast down to her shoes, “You flatter me.”

“I mean it, look at ye,” Paul closes in the gap between them, kissing her cheek gently, “I don’t ‘ave a chance.”

“Perhaps you do,” the girl says coyly, starting to rise onto her toes when suddenly Paul is yanked backwards.

“Enough of that,” a voice hisses in his ear, “Come on, now, Paulie.” 

Paul is being dragged into the doorway of the club before he realises what’s happening.

“Do you mind?” Paul twists around to face Stuart.

“Clearly I don’t,” Stuart shoves him through the door and out onto the street. People are shuffling past him, and Paul feels lost, gravitating towards Stuart for safety before they make it to a clearing on the wet road. Paul steps in a puddle and feels the cold water seeping into his shoes. He’s on the verge of complaining when Stuart grabs his arm and pulls him across the street.

They walk and walk, ducking through small alleys and turning corners before they finally reach a crumbling motel. 

They stroll on through, making their way to door number 9. Stuart shuffles through his pockets until he produces a key. He sticks it in the lock and turns, unlocking the door. 

Inside is a dark room containing a bed pushed up against the wall of peeling floral wallpaper.

“This is lovely, truly is,” Paul says, sarcasm lacing his voice. He steps inside, flicking on the light. Pale yellow washes through the room. There’s an old radio on a stool in the corner, and that’s all. There’s a moth or two circling around the lightbulb hanging in the center of the ceiling. 

Stuart shuts the door, locking it before turning and facing Paul with a quirked eyebrow. That’s when Paul notices the streak of red paint on his cheek and he almost huffs a laugh.

“Painting session, eh?”

“Shut up, you know why we’re here,” Stuart grabs the hem of his black turtleneck and pulls it over his head. Paul is quiet for a moment, eyes feasting on Stuart’s figure. 

“You’ve dragged me here for a quickie, then?” Paul shrugs off his jacket and tosses it aside. 

“Something like that. As if you had a chance with that girl at the bar anyway,” Stuart strips off his pants as Paul does the same. 

“Yer just jealous,” Paul accuses, stepping closer to Stuart, almost nose to nose with him. 

“Of what? You? Hardly,” Stuart palms himself as he speaks, eyes never parting from Paul’s hazel hued eyes. 

“I think ye are,” Paul hums, confident and amused.

Stuart’s eyes alight with something fierce before he gets down on his knees and takes Paul in his hand, jerking him off slowly. Paul stumbles a little at first, but regains his footing just before Stuart…

He takes him in his mouth. First, just the head, tonguing the slit. Paul moans louder than he would usually allow himself. Electric currents are being sent through his entire body, he feels it all through to his fingertips - which find themselves in Stuart’s hair. He presses hard, massaging his scalp as he takes him in further. 

“Fuck, so good,” Paul sighs. It’s warm and it’s perfect. He thrusts his hips ever so slowly, making Stuart moan around his cock. The vibrations are sent through him, rippling through his skin. 

And God, Stuart. His lips around Paul like that is blasphemous. His eyes are open, watching Paul’s every movement. Every expression that crosses his face - Stuart can see. He can tell Paul is absolutely immersed in the strong sensations curling up his spine. 

Stuart is pumping himself desperately as he pushes further and further, taking in Paul inch by inch. Paul cries out as he comes right into Stuart’s mouth. 

He doesn’t even consider Stuart until a few moments later, when he sees Stuart leaning back, quivering as he settles down. 

“Did you just...swallow?” Paul says, huffing. 

“Shut up,” Stuart stands up, legs noticeably unsteady, “You gave me no warning.”

“You loved it,” Paul shoots back, reaching for his pants, “Why’d ye drag me here anyway?” 

Stuart doesn’t speak, eyes lowered as he fumbles with his shirt buttons. Paul doesn’t know how to feel. Disgust? Because his mortal enemy just sucked him off like...well not even like one of the birds back home. It was entirely different. It was hot and messy and incredible. Should he feel anger? He let this happen again and truthfully, he wouldn’t be surprised if this occurred once more. Over and over. He feels like he’s spiralling out of control.

He lets his head sink into his hands, “What are we doing?”

“I told you not to look deeper,” Stuart replies as he wanders towards the small bathroom. He leaves the door open and the light on. Paul talks to the light spilling out of the doorway.

“But if we don’t this will keep happening,” Paul argues, pulling up his pants and zipping them, “It’s dangerous.”

“A little thrill never hurt anybody,” Stuart’s voice echoes off of the tiled walls of the bathroom. He emerges a moment later, fully clothed with his hands fiddling with the strands of hair that are falling in front of his eyes. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Paul mutters, shoving past Stuart and heading for the door. When it doesn’t open, Stuart slides in and unlocks it with the copper key. The proximity is a little overwhelming, causing Paul to be rendered speechless as he emerges into the cold night air.

-

Stuart walks in with a new haircut and Paul doesn’t know whether to burst into a fit of laughter or just stand there in awe. It suits him, as strange as it is. Hair swept across his forehead like Klaus.

“Look at you!” John laughs, patting Stuart on the shoulder, “Ye look like a proper exis member. Are ye here to recruit more followers?”

“Come off it, John,” Stuart says, but he’s smiling brightly, stroking his fringe with gentle fingers. 

Paul is astounded, in a slight daze because - wow- this is new. Different. Paul is almost...He could possibly...like it? It frames his face so nicely. He looks handsome and arty. Different from all the greasy teddy boys back home. 

In any case, he pushes Stuart into the bathroom stall and blows him. 

-   
  


“What’re ye pouting for?” John asks him after a set, ciggie hanging between thin lips. Paul had been thinking about Stuart. The scrawny lad had jumped off stage to hang around Astrid instead of joining the other boys backstage. It irked him somehow. 

“Stu’s playing is piss poor,” Paul decides on, and John rolls his eyes.

“He’s not that bad an’ ye know it,” John pokes Paul in this chest. 

“How’re we supposed to get anywhere with him?”

“I told ye once before, I’ll tell ye again. If Stu goes, I go.”

“You won’t. You know how great we can be, yer just stubborn,” Paul accuses, “Anyroad, I’m off for a drink. You coming?”

“Sure,” John shrugs and follows Paul to the bar. 

Paul sits up on a stool alongside John and orders himself a beer. He takes up John’s wordless offer of a cigarette and sucks in the smoke. His vision eventually drifts to where Stuart is sitting, arm around Astrid’s waist, closed into her space. Paul exhales slowly, eyes never leaving the two lovebirds. 

“He’s a good friend,” John says quietly. Paul turns to face the older boy with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Paul responds. 

“He’s never complained about ye. No matter how ‘ard ye are on him. He just takes it. Because he knows yer my friend.”

Paul feels his cheeks flush pink as their beer is served to them. John takes the mug and down the liquid quickly, throat convulsing as he swallows. 

“Ye tryin’ to tell me to back off?” Paul runs his fingertip over the rim of the glass, “Because I won’t. I want what’s best for this band.”

“Maybe a bit of harmony wouldn’t go astray,” John mutters bitterly between sips. 

Paul doesn’t know how to respond to that. Instead he just sips at his drink thoughtfully, ignoring the temptation to look Stuart’s way.

-

“Where the fuck is Stu?” Paul laments, shaking John by his shoulder.

“He’ll be here,” John sounds certain enough, fiddling with his guitar. 

“Or he’ll just be late again, his head somewhere in the fifth dimension,” Paul mumbles sorely. 

He’s torn between wanting Stuart to show up and for him not to. It’s a strange shove and pull of emotions. One one hand, having Stuart there would be good for the band. On the other hand, if he doesn’t show, John might be able to finally see what a useless prick he really is and be able to kick him out on the curb for good. Then Paul would never have to see him again and he can forget their strange erotic interactions once and for all. 

Stuart shows up in a white button up shirt and Astrid’s scarf hanging loosely around his neck, grinning. Paul is about to make a comment when-

“Where the fuck ‘ave ye been?” John crosses his arms over his chest, but his eyes seem to have a little kindness left in them.

“Lads,” Stuart beams, “I’m engaged. Astrid and I are getting married.”


End file.
